


Lights Up

by nowordstoexplain



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: Original Character of Color, Original Non-Binary Character - Freeform, Other, POV Character of Color, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowordstoexplain/pseuds/nowordstoexplain
Summary: Prompt: You work at a fashion magazine styling celebrities, and for this month’s issue, you’re working closely with Harry Styles on an editorial piece. You try hard not to get distracted and get the job done, but Harry’s dedicated to making that difficult for you. Black nonbinary OC x Harry Styles. Eventual sugar daddy HS. Fashion heavy (fashion is one of the kinks shh).
Relationships: Harry Styles/OC, Harry Styles/Reader
Kudos: 10





	Lights Up

**Author's Note:**

> hey sl*ts...

You’ve worked as a stylist for Extravagance for roughly three years, so you’re mostly used to seeing pretty, sparkly people in various states of undress. You operate at the highest level of professionalism though, barely even drooling over the many celebrities you’ve worked with.

You’d laced Timothee Chalamet into a satin corset for the Fall Issue a couple months ago, and you didn’t even bat an eye, even though, yes, he was unfairly pretty and really charming in the awkward doe-eyed way you really like.

You’re only human, so from time to time there is some flirting, some innocent banter and sometimes some less innocent looks exchanged, but you’re proud to say you’ve never hooked up with any of your clients. You like to keep business separate from pleasure, and again, your job is literally to make really pretty people look even prettier.

Sometimes the pretty people are assholes which makes everything easier for you. It’s worse when they’re polite and charming.

And then you find out that the magazine is doing an editorial, and at first it’s like _fuck yes_ , because with all those hours that you’re gonna have to put in the payday is going to be incredible, which means your SSENSE wish list is going to get a little smaller (you’re got your eyes on a MOWALOLA tee in a lime-green tie-dye that’s going to make all the fashion gays sick with envy).

But then your editor says “so, this is the Harry Styles issue” all casually like it’s not a big deal at all instead of like, the biggest fucking deal and the end of your career. Because she knows how you feel about Harry Styles, she knows it’s going to scramble your brain to be in close proximity with his half-naked pretty-boy body, to put him in and take him out of gorgeous clothes, that it’s going to activate your fight or flight to have to do that everyday for like a week.

She can see the panic in your eyes while you sit across from her in her office, and because she’s your boss she doesn’t outright laugh at you, but because she’s your friend she also gives you a little pout with laughing eyes like she wants to.

“I hate you,” you grumble, but in a professional way, with a smile showing all your teeth.

“I know you do,” she says. “You’re my best stylist, and I have complete trust in you.”

And that’s kind of sweet, isn’t it? “Oh, what? Thank you…”

“I trust that you won’t jump his bones and put us all out of a job with the ensuing scandal,” she smirks, turning back to her laptop, effectively dismissing you.

She pretends not to see you flip her off as you start to leave, and then calls out, right before you get out the door, “Especially considering this issue’s theme!”

You think, _what is she on about?_ and then it hits you like a tonne of bricks, that you’d pitched this one theme a couple months earlier over cocktails with the rest of the team, and it’d been a complete joke, except it turns out the joke is your life.

“What if, for the next issue,” you’d crowed, giggly and delirious, “we did the boy-heroine, like, one of those puppy boys that followed Jane Austin heroines around begging for her strap…”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” someone way more sensible than you had asked, and then you’d said some more drunk bullshit and gone on a full rant about gender in the Gothic romantic tradition and ruffle collars and rose petals and fishnets.

“Oh fuck,” you say out loud to yourself in the present moment, as you recall your editor had asked you a week or two back if you still had the tights studded with the rhinestones.

You did have the tights. And now you had no choice but to eat the tights, for the sake of your own sanity.

Harry shows up twenty minutes early to your first fitting, which means you’re twenty minutes late to your first fitting.

You walk in too-confident in a full Jacqmeus bike short and crop top moment in a buttery rust knit, chunky sneakers, and the most elaborate Badu-scarf situation you can maneuver your bleach-blonde dreads into, feeling very fucking cute and very on time.

“Bring on the pretty white boy,” you announce, walking in and doing this little dance, a little shimmy with your hips.

Your editor, Etta, is standing by a rack of clothes with a tall white boy with curly hair tied back with a a silk scarf that you’re 90% sure is vintage Gucci, and you’re about to say something like “killer scarf, where’d you thrift it?” when your rat brain catches up with you and you realize the tall white boy with the cool scarf is Harry Styles, who has turned to give you a look like he’s trying really hard not to laugh.

“I suppose I’m the pretty white boy?” he says, at the same time that Etta says “I have never met this person in my life, Harry, this is obviously an overheated toddler.”

You flip her off with one hand and meet Harry halfway for a handshake with the other. “In my defense, I really only talk about the talent like that when I assume the talent won’t be here for another twenty minutes…”

“And in my defense, I had an early start this morning,” Harry says good-naturedly. “Woke up on the right side of the bed, ate my Wheaties, that whole thing.”

He’s unfairly pretty, is the thing, like properly handsome. His hair falls smooth and shiny around his shoulders, and he’s got a little stubble moment going on (you’re a sucker for the sensation of stubble, the smell of expensive aftershave), and that scarf is definitely vintage Gucci, and the rest of it is giving off-duty rock star; black Bootsy Collins t-shirt, velvet lounge pants, well-loved black converse.


End file.
